Devoured
by NegativeSpaces
Summary: The descent into darkness is almost always a lonely journey. However, there is sometimes that one single light that accompanies you along this path, and guides you back to redemption. For Shego, it has a distinctly crimson glow. KiGo


**Devoured**

_A KiGo Tale_

Prologue

Though your voice is light compared to your battered body, your insides churn in barely kept fury as you nimbly snare the rope dangling down to take you away. Her eyes flash angrily and you see that infernal hair dryer (honestly. she carries it around so much you'd think it was for a different purpose entirely) pop out from hiding – you take great pleasure in knocking it from her grasp and the disbelieving shout that follows. "Have to be quicker than that, princess!" It's unknown how exactly you keep the strain out of your svelte wording, muscles flexing and aching from the beating you've received. A slow whirr from the hovercraft above you signifies the idiot has managed to – for once – power it up properly.

"It's not over, Shego!" You'll pretend like you didn't hear her; you're tired and fed up and angry, so for once you ignore the prospect to get in the last word.  
"It's never over." You mumble under your breath, heaving your form into the cockpit above.

Once inside, you let your legs dangle precariously from the howling hatch, relishing in the numbing pain that creeps into the thickness of your bones. Drakken is muttering something incomprehensible as always, and you pay him no mind as your form-fitting catsuit is peeled away with careful and patient precision. First the gloves come off, disentangled from your sweaty skin that shines in the harsh fluorescent beams radiating from above. All the gently clawed nails are chipped and flawed despite their titanium mesh coverings, and upon inspection one might even be close to falling off. With a low growl you flick the zipper that runs down the center of your chest, exposing pale skin that is marred with multicolored bruises (lovebites created with a fist instead of teeth) and you hiss through a clamped jaw when one is pressured. Your boss looks over momentarily at your discomfort but he immediately turns back, a deeper azure hue than before. Unbidden your onyx lips turn into a crude sneer behind his back, before returning to your task at hand.

Experimentally you curl and uncurl various muscles, groaning deep in the hollow of your throat when Drakken's inexperienced guidance jostles the aircraft and rattles your already frayed nerves. While the scenery rushes by, your eyes are glazed in a trance of half-lucid reality in order to _not think_ for once and manage to be alone before you complete whatever motion you feel on the precipice of going through. Each expand of your lungs presses the ribs faintly against the tender alabaster hue of your flesh, and even as the curtain of raven locks frame your face, you feel older than your given twenty three years. You can tell your boss is worried as you stare blankly at your torn hands, but you're grateful he doesn't attempt to make anything better. Sometimes, it just can't. Not yet.

The lull in the screaming winds is what drags you out of your conscious slumber, and your orbs flick forward as Drakken's clumsy footsteps echo against the thick metal holding you suspended above ground. "Shego," he starts but you hold up a hand, shooting him a withering glare.

"It's nothing."

"But-"

"_Nothing. _I'm just tired today."

He swallows violently (it amuses you that he looks at you with little child eyes that are wide with fear) as you hop down to the floor below, blatantly ignoring the henchmen that ogle your bared body and his inquisitive eyes burning holes in your skull. While it can be sweet sometimes, you'd really just prefer it if he stayed at one edge of the room, and you the other. Though it hovers on the tip of your tongue, you really don't care to admit that's the excuse you've been using for your past three losing streaks.  
Well, perhaps you wouldn't call it losing. Each time you've gotten away with whatever the blue oaf needed for his latest scheme – a washing machine? really, Dr. D? - but the cheerleader would show up at every single scene, and you'd begin your dance. They struggled it out back and gave you full reign of the floor; you'll never get tired of taunting her about her (poor) choice in clothing even as you vault over her shoulders to deliver a well earned blast of plasma right to the midsection. In a flurry of whirlwinds kicks and lightning-fast punches the two of you spin, one alight in a brilliance that slowly grows in intensity as does the other's expression. It's always that damned look that appears before she steps up her game to unbelievable levels, and you find yourself falling back – losing ground! At first you just passed it off as a good breakfast and short cheerleading practice, but as she just smacked you down for the third consecutive time, you're starting to wonder what's going on.

At first, she was just a nuisance. A dorky pain with gangly limbs and a flawed stance, coupled with wide-eyed innocence and a disgusting lack of fashion despite the sporting designer brands. You were... what, nineteen at the time you first clashed? Twenty? Barely supposed to be out of school yourself but instead living the high life; taking Drakken's job for kicks but unintentionally meeting your largest rival to date.

You let her win at first. Secretly – though you'd never admit it – you wanted to see her grow into a real challenge. When your boss confronted you you brushed it off by a flippant wave of your hand and some snide remark, commenting idly on his being beaten by something that resembles a large phallic member than anything. He'd storm off in a huff, you'd grin a not-so-secret little grin, and life would go on.

But now she's more than just a challenge, she's a genuine threat. You never meant for her to turn into somebody that could actually beat you in little skirmishes, even with your plasma turned down low as it is. Sometimes you wonder why you don't dial it up and incinerate the brat where she stands, but really, where's the fun in that? It's in the muted thumping of bone meets bone and nerves are ignored for the sake of your sanity is where the real life is, you never feel so alive if not exchanging brutal blows that would fell any regular human. But you're far from regular, aren't you?

You don't even notice you're examining yourself in the mirror until the lock clicks shut with a muted snap and the lights thrum quietly from overhead. With a critical eye you observe the figure in the reflection; pushing aside the pleased feeling that wells in your chest at the view of full, bared breasts and abs that twist and arch with each subtle movement. Instead you focus on the chromatic bruises that pepper your lithe frame, that one rib that juts out at an abnormal angle from the others. A finger laid upon the ridge coaxes a stiffening of the muscles and a slight flinch, but regardless of your body screaming no you lay a palm and jerk inwards, letting the sharp snap reverbrate across the room and down your spine. The moan that it accompanies slips from your lips as it settles back into place with the bruising to prove otherwise, but you pride yourself on an almost expressionless face.

_Pathetic._

It's entirely uncertain what made you turn when you did, but the previously adumbral room bursts into eerily shadowed jade brilliance, making diluted stars flash before narrowed eyes. Curled as you were into a constant state of mild paranoia, it's only before you scan the room several times do you even begin to become aware of the throbbing ache that settles in the pit of your stomach and makes its lumbering way throughout your sinewy muscles, finally coming to rest in the tips of your toes. You've staved it off in favor of detached observation, but now, as you stand alone in the middle of the green carpet with wild eyes and clenched fists, it hits you with a startling suddenness and makes your knees shudder slightly. It's been a long time since you've felt exhaustion, but this match that was just participated in will be felt tomorrow by both parties. The thought makes you smirk.

_Not good enough._

Again you spin, locks whirling wildly about your regal features. The grimace that graces your features is positively feral in its execution; eyes narrowing into half-human slits as you trace the outlines of each piece of flawlessly placed furniture in an effort to find the perpetrator. This time, there is another presence in the room – you can feel it deep in the coil of your abdomen. Still, the space remains still save for the flickering light that radiates from your hands. A shuffle from behind has you flipping to face the mirror, glaring for a moment at the stranger with bright eyes and ruffled hair. Yet as her features become familiar, you frown into your own reflection that stares impassively back. "What the hell is going on?"

If you were only half expecting an answer, why does it startle you so when the doppleganger arches an immaculate raven brow in response? In almost unbelieving reverence you move two fingers to your brow, where the appendage remains firmly drawn, even as your duplicate lets a cruel smirk crawl along the edges of her black-tinted lips with sinful reluctance.

_You are weak, Shego._

Though its mouth does not move you know that this... reproduction is what has spoken the words. Absently you pinch the insides of your arms, frowning when a sharp jolt of pain echoes from the bruised area. This has to be a dream, right? It has to be.

_Perhaps not a dream._

"Then what?" It seems your sanity has momentarily broken; you might as well go along for the ride. Maybe this is one of those 'inner talks' people like Oprah are always going on about. The voice that comes out of your throat is not your own – it is raspy and rough, holding none of the sarcastic lilt or seductive purr you are so known for. The mirror-image lets the delightfully languorous sneer curl up the fullness of her lips, propping one still-glowing hand on a cocked hip. She studies you for a moment with eerily pulsating jade orbs, before rolling them back and pretending to watch the ceiling with an infuriatingly _Shego _air of apathy.

_A nightmare._

Even as you watch the twining fire that caresses her hands curl up the strength of her forearms, licking the flesh presented but never burning what it is given. A superstitious glance at your own appendages confirms that your own flame remains anchored to your wrists, none deciding to stray along pale, ivory skin. She watches as a cat would a canary; the serpentine coil of her spine shifting deep from within her core as she distributes her weight onto the opposite foot.

_She has beaten you. A child. This disheartens you._

"Well, yeah," You comment dryly. "Aren't you supposed to know that already?"

_We can make you stronger, Shego. _It murmurs, completely ignoring the previous interruption. As the question of how hangs heavy on your tongue, you watch in barely-repressed rapture as the conflagration that goes against the very ideas of nature reaches her shoulders, touching the firm curve of her biceps and threading with strands of her – your – inkblack hair. She faces her palms outwards and breathes in deep, stickybright colors implode around her frame as the volatile illumination blazes with an intensity rarely witnessed, devouring every crevice and turn of her body. The pressure makes her wild mane lift outwards, floating gently in the imagined breeze and eyes shimmering with an unearthly light. Even before your eyes, the pure inferno is invaded; corrupted by tendrils of writhing darkness. The shadow twines into the pulsating radiance, seeming to expand and retract along with the casual rise and fall of her elegant chest. As it spreads from the ambience around her into her flawless complexion, you're struck with an uneasy feeling. It crawls along snowy white skin, sinking into her flesh as moving tattoos. Along with it brings a sense of unadulterated power that flares with reckless impunity you have never felt before in your short life.

_But first, _she whispers; her eyes bloom an outstanding shade of viridian as the coruscation bathes her – your? you don't know anymore – features in lukewarm brilliance.

_You have to change._ A hand is trailed down the valley of your breasts, and a chipped claw comes to rest in the hollow of your chest. You feel a slight pressure and frown, own fingers coming up to uncertainly touch the area.

_… inside._

A/N: Well, that was disgustingly less eloquent than what I originally thought of. No matter. See, I don't know if this is going to develop into an actual story (I'm horrible with committing to updates) or perhaps just an idea in my mind that is much better worded and slightly less confusing. Just something I'm putting up there to see how you guys react to it; leave me a review and see what you think. Also, if I'm actually going to take this, I'm probably going to need a beta. Just saying.


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